


We’ll Help Each Other Through This Mess

by Ghostlymissions



Series: Small Moments That Mean The World [4]
Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Alternate Universe - 1930s, Angst, M/M, Miscommunication, Oral Sex, Post-Serum Steve Rogers, Pre-Serum Steve Rogers, References to Illness
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-11
Updated: 2015-11-11
Packaged: 2018-05-01 02:10:31
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,919
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5188175
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ghostlymissions/pseuds/Ghostlymissions
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><em>"The horror of Bucky seeing him like this was dampened for a moment, drowned out by the joy of seeing </em>Bucky<em> for the first time in almost two weeks. God, Steve had missed him, hated being away from him for so long."</em></p><p>Or: Bucky and Steve taking care of each other, during the bad times. Written because angsty boys being unsure of each other is my jam.</p>
            </blockquote>





	We’ll Help Each Other Through This Mess

**Author's Note:**

> Based on the writing prompt: _"You look...great"._

### 1935, Age 17

The afternoon light filtered through the window, illuminating the dust motes that floated in the room. Steve lay in bed, listening to the bustle of the streets below - the car engines, children laughing at they walked home from school, construction workers bellowing at each other from some distant rooftop. His limp hair stuck to his sweaty forehead, but even moving his arm to brush it away felt like too much effort.

A knock on the bedroom door, his mother’s head peeking through. Dressed in her crisp white uniform, she walked in and sat on the edge of the bed, placing a glass of water on the beside table. Her cool hands felt wonderful as she smoothed Steve's hair back, wiped his watery eyes with the edge of her finger.

“How’re you feeling, love?” she asked. 

Steve turned his head away, embarrassed. He was too old for this, should be the one taking care of _her_ and that cough she couldn’t seem to shake. But she only tsked at his reaction.

“None of that, now,” she said, and helped him up to sip from the glass.

She felt his forehead as he drank, her brow creased, and Steve knew. The fever still hadn’t broken, ten days straight; his skin a deep red, shining from the heat. But there was nothing to be done; they had used up the last of the medication almost a week ago.

“You’re gonna be late for work, Ma,” he croaked. “I’ll be fine”. 

Her mouth set into a line. “I’m asking Mrs. Holloway to check on you later tonight”.

It felt like punishment; Steve didn't need anyone, especially a stranger to look after him. But he didn’t even have the strength to argue, could only nod weakly as he laid back down. A flash of worry crossed his mother’s face before she smoothed her expression into something cool, professional. An expression even worse than worry. Maybe he should have put up more of a fight, Steve thought, but it didn’t matter, now. She tucked the blanket down around him, patting his hand as she stood.

“Let Bucky visit tonight, hm?” she said. “It’ll do you a world of good”.

Steve swallowed hard, closing his eyes. It had been days of Bucky knocking at the door, and Steve shaking his head; his mother's confused expression as she sent Bucky away, looking back at Steve as if he'd change his mind. But she could never understand. Things had changed. 

“I don’t want to see him right now,” Steve said. 

But the words died in his throat at the stern look his mother gave him. She pointed her finger at Steve, no nonsense.

“You let him in,” she said. “The poor boy’s been skulking around the front landing for ages”. 

A kiss pressed to his forehead and a promise to be home as early as she could, and she was gone. 

****

Steve wasn’t sure why he woke, seemingly moments after he closed his eyes. Sunshine was still filtering in the windows, but it was sharper, angled against the wall. He coughed wetly, turning his head to look for the glass of water. As he moved, his foot bumped against some solid surface on the bed. A figure loomed over him.

He startled badly, but it was only Bucky, resting around the foot board.

The horror of Bucky seeing him like this was dampened for a moment, replaced with the joy of seeing _Bucky_ for the first time in almost two weeks. It was a punch straight to the gut. God, Steve had _missed_ him, hated being away from him for so long. He must have stolen the key from the mat again; Mrs. Holloway would be frantic, later.

But it didn’t matter. Steve’s heart ached as he drank Bucky in: his hair styled perfectly, his skin already tanning from the spring sun. The tiniest shadows under his eyes, the square pack of smokes in his pocket. He was perfect, _god_ , he was always so gorgeous. If he could hold a pen, Steve would already be sketching him, not wanting to forget. 

They stared at each other for a long moment, Bucky’s expression unreadable. Then Bucky leaned forward, resting his chin against his hand.

“I thought you were on your death bed, the way you wouldn’t let me in here,” he started, his voice conversational. “I was imagining some horrible, contagious disease that made your skin green and gave you purple spots”. 

“Quit it,” Steve said between coughs, reaching for his glass of water. But his Ma was right: he was already feeling a little better, just hearing Bucky’s voice.

“Or maybe something out of the pulps, you know?” Bucky said. He unfolded his legs and moved to sit on the edge of the bed, guiding Steve to sit up against the pillows. “Like you growing tentacles, secretly an alien life form, and your ma having to call a priest." A pause. "It’d explain a lot”. 

“I mean, it, Buck,” Steve warned.

“But you look great,” Bucky continued, unperturbed by Steve’s wet coughing. He thumped at Steve back to loosen the phlegm. “Which means you're only suffering from being a punk”.

Before Steve could reply, Bucky stood and walked out of the room. It didn't take long for the sense of shame to return, in waves: he was being weak, letting Bucky in here. It wouldn’t end well, if he let him stay. Hell, maybe Bucky had already left; took one look at Steve’s sweaty, frail body and realized he had made a horrible mistake. 

But Bucky returned a second later, with a fresh glass of water and a damp cloth. He hesitated, moving to wipe Steve’s face, then seemed to think better of it and handed the cloth to Steve to do himself. Tears sprung to Steve’s eyes; in anger, in embarrassment. It didn't make any _sense_. The room smelled like sick, and Steve looked like he did, and Bucky looked like _he_ did, and _why was he still here_? Why was he looking at Steve like that, like everything was okay? Because it wasn't, not at all.

“Go away,” Steve whispered. 

“No”.

"I don't want you here".

"Tough luck," Bucky said. "When'd you last eat? Maybe I can-"

“I can take care of myself,” Steve said, as loud as he could. He let the rest go unsaid, spilling into the silence of the room as they stared each other down. _I don’t want you to see me like this. Not anymore, not after we’ve..._

Bucky’s eyes flashed. For one long second Steve was sure that Bucky would slug him, illness or not. But instead, Bucky sat down, leaned in close.

“I drag you home after every fight,” Bucky said, his voice low. “Bloody, usually. Black and blue”. 

“This is different,” Steve said. He wasn’t sure how, but he knew it was. 

But Bucky shook his head. 

“The only thing that’s different is you didn’t pick this fight," Bucky said. Then he climbed over Steve’s legs, settling next to him against the bed frame.

There wasn’t much Steve could say to that, all his arguments falling away, even as Steve tried to grab at them, pull them back. He watched Bucky pick at the callouses on his palms, blatantly ignoring Steve; an illusion of privacy. So he busied himself by wiping his face and mouth with the cloth, then fumbled with his sleep top, which stuck against his skin. But his fingers ached too much, the buttons slipping out of his grasp. Pathetic, he was pathetic, and this was-

“Hey," Bucky said. "Let me”. 

Then he reached over, slid the buttons open quickly and efficiently. His mouth brushed against Steve’s temple as he worked, a ghost of a kiss. 

Steve trembled. Here Bucky was, helping Steve with basic things a _child_ could do, and he didn’t even seem to mind. Like this was no big deal, just another day. Steve didn't _understand_ , but was too afraid to ask. 

Bucky waited as Steve wiped his chest down, washing away the sweat, then helped Steve button back up. He leaned in to kiss Steve’s mouth when he was done.

“Don’t,” Steve mumbled. “You’ll catch it”.

But Bucky hummed and closed the distance, his mouth fresh and cool against Steve’s overheated skin. He kissed slowly, licking against Steve’s chapped lips, soothing them. His thumb rubbed at Steve’s hip, a gentle promise. His nose brushed Steve’s own as he retreated.

“I don’t care,” Bucky said. “I’m just glad you don’t have purple spots”. 

And maybe they would be okay, Steve decided. Maybe they were gonna be just fine.

### PART TWO: 1943, Age 25

Escaping the HYDRA facility was easy, in the end. Most of the freed men had grabbed their share of tanks and weapons, and HYDRAs ranks had retreated, allowing Steve and the troops to disappear into the forest. But no one spoke for miles, men holding their fingers on the trigger, ready for whatever came. Maybe it was too easy.

Bucky’s feet dragged limply as they walked, tripping over roots and leaves. Occasionally his eyes flickered over Steve’s new body; critically, at first, then more resigned before looking away. But he didn’t ask any more questions; Steve didn’t know what to say, anyway. All the fantasies he had during training, of finally being reunited with Buck, of all the things they'd say to each other... but the reality was much more awkward, unsure. _When we're alone,_ Steve thought. _We just need a minute alone_.

At midnight the men stopped to rest, finally feeling safe at the distance between them and their prison. It was a good thing, too -- Bucky didn’t feel feverish, but his eyes were glassy, tremors shaking through his body. Any more walking and Steve was afraid he’d collapse.

He set Bucky down against a tree, handing him a canteen of water. Then he hesitated. More than anything he wanted to stay by Bucky’s side, never let him out of his sight. But the others...

“Bucky-”

“Yeah,” Bucky said, giving Steve a shaky smile. “Go be the hero”. 

A few men -- Falsworth, Dugan, and Jones, Steve learned -- had already stepped up, calling out orders and setting up tents. They worked mostly in silence, rationing out the food, checking their supplies. Morita was the only medic of the group, everyone clamoring to see him first. But after finding a medical kit tucked away in one of the trucks, he turned to Steve with an expectant look.

“So, where’d you put him?” he asked. Steve had never been more grateful.

It took longer than Steve thought, setting up camp for the night. Men kept coming up to him, shaking his hand, quietly thanking him. Their appreciation made Steve lost for words, could only nod before returning to his work. But when he finished one task and went to start on the next, Dugan stopped him, a hand on his shoulder.

“You’ve done enough for us, Cap,” he said, then nodded towards the end of camp. “We set up a tent for you, over there. Get some rest. We’ll take it from here”. 

A gentle push, and he was dismissed.

The tent was raised away from the rest of the group, surrounded by tall trees and dense shrubbery. The perfect place for privacy. But Steve winced at the sight - the tent was HYDRA made and fit for a high ranking officer, large and fortified. Not really his style.

He slipped inside, meaning to drop off his helmet and shield before finding Bucky... but Bucky was already there, a bandage wrapped around his torso. He leaned up on his elbows at Steve’s entrance.

“There’s not enough tents, so even the Captain has to share,” Bucky said with a smile. But his eyes were wary. “Hope that’s okay”.

“Yeah, yes, of course it is,” Steve said. He practically stumbled over himself in his haste to crawl in beside Bucky. “You okay?”

Bucky hummed noncommittally. 

They lay on their sides, facing each other, not saying a word. In the darkness Steve studied Bucky’s face: a few bruises around his cheek, his left ear bleeding, his lips badly chapped. Weary lines traced his forehead and eyes. In the span of a few months, it looked like Bucky had aged years. 

Steve swallowed hard. He reached out, wanting to smooth those lines away. Bucky flinched, so minutely, then moved back into Steve’s touch. Steve felt the roughness of his stubble, the ridges of a few invisible scars that hadn’t been there before. Bucky continued to watch him, wary and unsure.

God, this was a mess -- _they_ were a mess -- and Steve didn’t know how to fix this, didn’t even know how to begin. 

Bucky took in Steve’s expression, huffed a small breath.

“I look that bad, huh?”. 

“No,” Steve said. “No, you look-” _Beautiful. Traumatized. Alive._ “- great.”

Bucky frowned, and _no_ , that wasn’t okay. That wasn’t what he wanted. 

“No green or purple spots anywhere," Steve declared, his voice hoarse.

It wasn’t funny; he knew it wasn’t the moment he said it, his mind flickering back to that laboratory, that table. But Bucky let out a shaky breath, smiled a half-smile. He pressed his face further against Steve’s hand, a little more confident.

“No tentacles, either,” Bucky said. “At least not yet”. 

And suddenly everything felt too real, too raw. He hadn't allowed himself to think before, couldn't even go through the possibilities, and now Bucky was _here_ , with him, beside him, and making jokes. Steve needed to be closer, needed to do more than just touch. He closed his eyes, mouth searching, but Bucky turned his face sharply away.

“Don’t,” Bucky whispered. 

He wouldn’t meet Steve’s eyes, carefully avoided touching Steve in any way. But Steve reached forward anyway, traced along Bucky's jaw with his nose, breathing him in.

“Closest man is twenty yards away,” Steve said against his ear. “And we can be quiet”.

Then, even softer, because he couldn’t help himself:

“I missed you”. 

At that, Bucky made a soft, hurt sound. He searched Steve’s eyes for a long moment. Steve tried to silently reassure him, that it was okay, that no one could hear. 

And then they were kissing, finally, _finally_.

Bucky tasted like sweat, like grime and chemicals and fear, and _god_ , Steve just wanted to erase it, to help him forget whatever HYDRA had done. Gently he pushed Bucky on his back, crawled over him, moving to kiss his neck. Hands grabbed at Steve’s arms hard enough to bruise, then stilled, let go.

He felt Bucky trace his shoulders, run his fingers down Steve’s back, learning this new body. They kissed slowly; Steve giving Bucky a chance to feel him out, to memorize. And to feel Bucky's body against his own, after all this time. 

Then without warning Bucky let out a harsh breath, grabbed Steve's hair roughly, kissing him hard. Blood welled up against Steve's lip, scratch marks against his back, even through his clothing. It was angry, so angry, and frantic, sounds tearing out of Bucky's throat as he moved. But Steve only gasped, let Bucky take control. Let Bucky rub against him, hardening against his thigh. Let him bite and claw. Whatever he needed, wanted, he let Bucky take. 

Bucky broke away with a small moan. His hand relaxed against Steve’s hair, but his eyes were wild.

“Sorry,” Bucky said, breathing erratically. “Fuck, sorry”. 

Heart pounding, Steve closed his eyes, casting out his senses. None of the other men were near the tent, no one appeared to be listening in. They were safe. So whatever Bucky wanted; whatever helped him forget, anything Steve could give. He kissed Bucky again, then slid his hand down, rubbing Bucky’s cock through his pants.

“Let me?” he breathed. “Please”. 

Bucky froze. Then licked his lips, nodded. _Yes_. Steve shuffled down quickly, before Bucky changed his mind.

And _oh_ , Bucky smelled the same here, just the same. Tasted faintly of salt, of earth, of _Bucky_. Steve kissed the warm, soft skin of Bucky’s hips, closing his eyes. He let himself drift, guided by Bucky’s hands flexing in his hair. 

It was so different from before, so much better. Steve could control his breath, didn’t have to pause every minute to prevent an asthma attack. He licked, and sucked, and tongued, and did everything he could to drive Bucky crazy, to make him squirm. Chased the unbidden sounds Bucky made, wanting more, louder, anything. His nose brushing against pubic hair, reveling in the way Bucky’s back arched in response, hips jerking against Steve’s hands. 

Bucky shivered as he came, biting his lip to say quiet. And that was all it took for Steve to let go, too, with Bucky’s hands running softly through his hair.

****

Afterwards they lay together, Steve’s chest against Bucky’s back. Both satiated, content. Bucky’s fingers traced Steve’s hands, over and over, back and forth. He didn’t seem to want to sleep, despite the long journey in the morning.

“Get some rest” Steve murmured. “I’ll stay awake, keep watch”.

He felt Bucky tense, felt the way his heart started to race, pounding against his ribcage, out of control.

“I don’t know what they did to me,” Bucky said shakily. “I don’t know if-”. He swallowed. “Steve, if I don’t-”

But Steve shushed him, pulling Bucky closer. 

“It’s going to be okay” he said fiercely. “We’re gonna be fine”. 

Because Bucky was with him, and he was safe, and it had to be true.

It had to be.

****

**Author's Note:**

> A/N: God, this is so self-indulgent. Let’s just pretend that everyone in the camp was clueless, and busy doing other things, so sex in the middle of camp was totally possible. Why not!?


End file.
